We Can't Fight Here

9th of August, 2003

"Alright, this isn't workin' out."

"Did you say something to me, motherfucker?"

The President of The United States of America sighs and rubs his temples. Across him, the King of Belgium is busy jamming a spoonful of mayonnaise in his own mouth, staring daggers at the President. To his right is the Queen of Britain, rocking back and forth and humming a nursery rhyme as her assistant desperately tries to translate the dialogue going on at the table to a more easily digested format for Her Majesty. To his left is the Prince of Florida, whooping and hollering as he smashes a gavel on the table.

"THERE WILL BE ORDER IN MY COURT."

"Eventually, my dear."

The Queen of New Alabama strokes the Prince's cheek, attempting to calm him down.

"Let me level with you. If you guys don't sober up real fucking soon, I'm going to walk out."

The Mayor of France glares angrily after speaking his mind, having been quiet for the past half hour.

A blindfolded man watches silently, amused at the proceedings. He's going to have a lot to report to his employer this evening.

"Okay okay, shut the fuck up fellas. There, that's better. Aight, now I know we've all said some things I regret... I mean, I regret things a lot, yknow? So uh, that's a normal human thing to do. Aight, now the thing is, we have to stop bickerin', y'know, and uh... Come up with a plan."

"What the fuck is he talking about?"
"SH!"

"Thing is, we gotta do somethin' about these anomalies... these uh, these things that have been sproutin' round the world. I mean, Mayor, you've got the first incident two years back, correct?"

"That's correct."
The Mayor of France's eyes mist over as he remembers the day he lost his wife to a rampaging ringmaster. The smell of popcorn and copper. Crimson fluid clashing with polka dotted clothing.

"Aight, and uh, Your Majesty, you've seen the uh, the masked ones a year back, right?"

Her Majesty puts her fingers in her ears and closes her eyes, rocking back and forth and making fart noises with her mouth.

"She says yes."

"Alright, thank you. In any case, this confirms that what our countries are going through... It's not just isolated incidents. It's a global operation. The masked ones in Britain were seen performing mime routine, and all the mimes in France went AWOL three years back, If I recall correctly. So that leads me to believe they're uh, they're workin' together."

"No fucking shit."

"God, can someone tell that prick to shut up? Alright, thanks."

"MUST I HAVE HIM EXECUTED, MY LORD?"
"Quiet, darling."

It is the year 2003. World leaders have gathered in a top-secret-but-highly-televised bunker underneath the rich soil of Belgium, mostly because they had no other place to crash and the King of Belgium was the only one with a swanky pad like this and that's why they hang out with him even though he's the friend no one likes. The rest of the countries of the world presumably had the same idea, considering they all gathered in Russia and these bozos weren't invited.

"We've had it bad too, y'know. We've seen em comin' in. Hordes of em. Watched all of Delaware get swallowed up by carnies. Turned into a clown alley overnight. Fuckers came in in those comically undersized boats. Infection spread from there."

"DELAWARE? YOU MUST MEAN NEW SWEDEN. AH, THOSE SWEDES. FULL OF MEATBALLS AND LIES."
"Love, that stopped being a thing in the seventeenth century."
"THE NIGHT WIND CAN ALWAYS CARRY ONE MORE SCREAM, WOMAN."
"Shh."

The King is scarfing down a bowl of peanuts. The Queen's assistant is knocking back a slug of vodka. The Mayor is shaking. The President is getting really tired of this bullshit.

"Okay, shut up. You, Prince. You're banned from talking, effective immediately. No more. Shut. Your mouth. Shut it. Good, yes. Alright, as I was sayin'..."

"Get on with it, fatass!"

"GOD, SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

"FUCK ALL OF YOU!"

"THIS TIME I'M REALLY GONNA DO IT, YOU SICK FUCKS! YOU BETTER WATCH! YOU BETTER FUCKING WATCH!"

"EAAAAARGHGHGHGHG!!! OUAHHHGHHH!! AAARGHH!"

"CALM DOWN, PLEASE!"

"TAKE THIS!"

"Missed me, you hamburger-eating fuck! Can't hit strai-OW, FUCK"

"There, that's better."

Everyone sits back down. The King missing a few teeth, the Mayor cursing himself for not having the courage, and The Queen licking a jar of marmite.

"As we were saying, we should come up with a plan of action. I'm thinkin' a cool paramilitary organization that flies around slaughtering clowns."

"I vote in favor of the clown slaughter."

"I VOTE IN FAVOR OF THE SLAUGHTER."

"I vote against. Not because of any honest arguments or anything, just because I know it pisses you off."

"She votes yes."

"Alright, that's settled then. I suppose we'll start preparations on this whole organization tomorrow. See you guys then. Meeting adjo- wait, what the fuck was that?"

CLANG.

Fwip.

"OH JESUS, DARLING! NO!"

The Prince of Florida slumps over, leaking crimson from a perfectly round hole in his forehead.

Fwip.

His wife soon follows.

"FLIP OVER THE TABLE, QUICK!"

"WAIT, WHAT DIRECTION?"

"ALRIGHT, EVERYONE IN FAVOUR OF FLIPPIN' IT OVER TO THE LEFT, SAY A-"

Fwip.

"Right it is, then."

Fwip. Fwip.

"There goes Her Majesty. And uh, her assistant too. God, the legs on that lady. What a shame."

"Do you ever shut up?"

Fwip.

"Grlrghl."

"What?"

"Grlrghl."

The Mayor looks over, and is greeted by The King's face, minus jaw. He reaches out a shaking hand, only to quickly pull it away when the Mayor reaches out to hold it, having bled out with one last dick move.

"Huh, that answers that. Anyone else? No? Alright then."

The Mayor of France puts his revolver to his temple, and pulls the trigger.

A new flag waves above the white house. 

Uncle Bobo's Funcouncil Ranks

Employee

Not even initiated. These men and women are blissfully unaware of Uncle Bobo's agenda, and are fully convinced they are just working another minimum wage summer job. Standard work uniform: blue button-down shirt and grey slacks.

Initiated

Lowest possible rank. No cult uniform, except a small smiley button pin on their work shirt. Not too bright, usually. Tend to get sent on the errands the big boys don't want to do.

Acolyte

Red work shirt, black slacks. Human enough, I suppose. Most cultists never go beyond this rank. Unarmed, like the ranks before them, though they have basic knowledge of flanking tactics and are prone to using everyday items as slugging instruments.

Speaker

Black work shirt, black slacks. Red jacket. Leads small groups of acolytes during group “activities” and “teambuilding exercises”. Tend to be more shrewd, though still not that bright. Might hold a sermon or two, if the manager is sick that day. Sends Acolytes after anything that's bothering them, but if they get too close, has a small switchblade to defend themselves with.

Manager

White work shirt, Dark blue tie, dark blue pinstripe slacks. The real deal. Bosses everyone around, from the speakers to the employees. Trained in hand-to-hand combat, armed with an easily concealable stun baton, and prioritizing self preservation. If they manage to get a target down, they are dragged off. These people are not often seen again. We once captured one of them by surprise, and got them in for questioning. Patted him down and everything. During the interrogation, he took off his glasses, chewed on the stems of his glasses, and immediately died of cyanide poisoning. These guys don't fuck around.

Negotiator

No uniform. Walks around town, recruiting gullible teens and depressed adults into working for Bobo's nefarious organization. Tend to target your self-esteem. Notably, they seem to have a more intricate knowledge of the people they are interviewing than they let on at first. Possibly, they get fed this information from Gazers that have been shadowing potential recruits.

Ascetic

Seldom seen in the field, these men and women have withdrawn from society to pursue a life in one of Uncle Bobo's many warehouses, doing god-knows-what. Our only proof of these members even existing is the fact that often times, a raid on a warehouse shows the field agents that there are small sleeping cabins reserved for these folks. The Ascetics themselves always get away before agents can swoop in.

Gazer

White work shirt. White pants. Blindfold. Seem to be a branch of the main cult, as they tend to follow their own agenda in the field. Creeps me the fuck out. Unarmed, but they sometimes point at you and hiss. Seem to work as intelligence agents of sorts, scouting out locations and keeping tabs on “problem customers”.

Seer

Black work shirt. Top two buttons are missing. Black pants. White blindfold, adorned with two buttons where the eyes should be. These guys are bad news. Don't know how they do the thing where black fluid drips out from under the blindfold, but I'm not a fan of it. Seem to be messengers for Bobo himself. After attempting to capture one for questioning, it bit down on its thumb and gurgled. Subject was declared dead after twenty seconds. The letter it was holding was found to be blank.

Fanatic

Black robes. Armed with handguns, knowledgeable about simple squad tactics, and wearing bulletproof vests underneath those robes. These motherfuckers are responsible for quite a lot of casualties on our end. Shoot on sight, they won't hesitate to do the same.

Zealot

Dark red robes. Holes in said robes stitched up with pages from the Uncle Bobo employee's manual. Armed with automatic rifles. Found leading squads of Fanatics around. Often makes themselves known by screaming out verses from their insane little book they carry with them. Deadly. Avoid at all costs.

Prophet

What the fuck is this thing? Some sort of horrid amalgamation of flesh and nightmares, it only looks like a human being if you are blind, senile or severely mentally handicapped. Meaty flaps cover its face, with rows upon rows of serrated teeth on the inside. Not sure if there's only one, or if it's multiple and they just look the same. Moves around by levitating, and communicates with creepy clicking noises.

Worm

Torn work shirt and pants. Black fluid seeping out of black, soulless eyes. Permanent euphoric grin. These boys are in deep, and no amount of interrogation is going to pull them out. Vomits all over the place. Huge hassle to keep in the facilities, better just shoot them in the field and be done with it.

Voidborn

Just another teenager at first glance. Wears a crappy cape on his work outfit. Same black soulless eyes. Rarely seen outside of its pocket dimension, and if it's outside, prepare for pain. Seems to be able to alter reality in any way it seems fit, within Uncle Bobo's guidelines ofcourse. Smells like cheetos. Shooting it doesn't help, the fucker just thinks really hard about not being shot. Just run.

19,99 $

[THE SELLEVISION LOGO FADES. LARRY WALKS ON STAGE, CARRYING A STACK OF PAPERS.]

Good evening, tv-watching folks! Welcome once again to Sellevision, the completely televised catalogue of things you didn’t KNOW you needed!

[AUDIENCE CHEERS]

I’m your host, Larry. Yknow, from accounting? That Larry. Hiya!

[AUDIENCE CHEERS]

So. Y’know, we’ve got some uh, some real good stuff for you on offer today. It’s a very special episode, after all. Can’t air a program without doing a Dependence Day special, hehe.

Without further ado, let’s get right into it.

So, you see, what we got here is… ah, it’s lovely. This one’s a winner, folks. It’s a real beaut. Ever wanted to know the human skeleton like the back of your hand? This Do-It-Yourself Anatomy Set is bound to please your desires. See, it comes with everything you need. All the various bonesaws and scalpels, a diagram or two, some disinfectant, a rag… all you need is your subject. Pets, people, plants! You name it, you can dissect it!

[AUDIENCE CLAPS]

Alright alright, settle down everybody. It’s not that good. Not when you see what else we have. In any case, the whole package, it’s yours for 50 bucks. That’s fifty united states dollars. Call within the next fifteen minutes, you get two. Delight a friend!

[THE SELLEVISION LOGO APPEARS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SCREEN. NEXT TO IT IS A PHONE NUMBER.]

Alright, so this next one it’s… uh, it’s a doozy. You see, here we go. Truly you too have problems at home with those cupboards, right? You open em, and stuff falls out, and it makes a mess, and it’s really really bad… Heh. Yeah, well we’ve got a solution. See this is… uh…

[LARRY WHISPERS TO A STAGEHAND. DIGITAL ENHANCEMENT IDENTIFIED WORDS SUCH AS “…A fucking padlock…” AND “…Expect me to sell this shit…”]

A-hem. So, this is the Mess-Bye Inc. Cupboard Protector. It seals the doors to that one cupboard you got. Protect stuff with it, if you want. You could probably use it on something else too, go wild. Twenty bucks, it’s yours.

[VIDEO SNIPPET OF WOMAN FAILING TO OPERATE A CUPBOARD]

[AUDIENCE GASPS]

Alright, cool it you guys. We’ve got a lot of stuff to get through, so uh, just… just bear with me alright? Stop trying to rush me.

So, this, this is a real gem ladies and gents. Ever woke up one morning, hungry for something to snack on, yet there was nothing in the house to suit your tastes? Why not try Peanut™? It’s uh, it really is one! It’s a peanut, folks. There you have it.

[FANFARE SNIPPET PLAYS, AUDIENCE CHEERS]

Hold on, I haven’t even explained what you can do wi- Y’know what, forget it. Figure it out yourself. Let’s just swiftly move on.

[AUDIENCE CHEERS UPROARIOUSLY]

Yeah, this is good. This product is a good one. Having trouble gathering out in the woods, because your friends keep getting chilly? Need something to impress that new Being you are trying to appease? Why not try MayaTek Insulated Robes?

Whether you are worshiping a forbidden legume or the patron saint of apathy, just put these on and immediately give your prayers that little bit ‘extra’ that we all want. 70 bucks, but you can pay it over the course of 4 months if you can’t do that.

[AUDIENCE CHANTS SOFTLY]

Nice. Good stuff, use it myself all the time. Company meeting room has this really awful air conditioning we can’t turn off. Alright, what’s next… uh… Yeah!

Tired? Hungry? Thirsty? Need a pick-me-up? Going out to town with friends, and want to liven up the evening? Why not try out a vial of Crow Dust? You can get a tryout pack for free if you just call the number on the screen. It’s some pretty good stuff. I use it every day before I go to work, and man, lemme tell you, meetings become a lot more fun when you can only focus on counting the number of molecules in your fingernails.

Completely replaces whatever your body craves. Hunger is gone, thirst is no more. Side effects may include nausea, vomiting, headaches, organ liquification, and kidney stones.

First one’s free! Rest will cost ya. Dunno how much, don’t care enough to remember. Anyways…

[AUDIENCE CHEERS]

GOD, CAN YOU JUST CALM THE HELL DOWN FOR A SECOND?

Alright, that’s better.

[LARRY GRABS PISTOL FROM HIS POCKET]

So what we got here is pretty good, I use it on a daily basis. It’s called a Glock 17.

The 9x19mm Glock 17 is the most widely used law enforcement pistol worldwide and is one of the best selling handguns to civilians in the USA. Because of its unsurpassed reliability, above-average magazine capacity of 17 rounds and its low weight, it is trusted by law enforcement officers and security professionals worldwide. It is safe, easy and quick to use through the revolutionary "Safe Action" trigger system. Glock 17 - designed for professionals. 

475 dollars, give or take. No haggling.

[FANFARE SNIPPET FROM EARLIER PLAYS. LARRY LOOKS VISIBLY UNNERVED. HE IS STILL HOLDING THE PISTOL.]

Okay, I know what’s going to happen now. You’re gonna cheer. They’ll expect me to just stand here and take it. Alright, I get it. I get what they want from me. They’re not going to get it though. Not today.

[AUDIENCE GASPS]

That’s right. I’m done with this. I’m done with all of you. And I’m done with that bozo over there manning the lights.

[LARRY TAKES AIM]

Goodnight, funnyman.

[LARRY FIRES OFF FOUR SHOTS. A SOFT THUMP IS HEARD AS A BATTERED CLOWN BODY HITS THE GROUND.]

[AUDIENCE CHEERS]

STOP IT! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!

[LARRY WILDLY FIRES HIS PISTOL. FLESHY IMPACTS ARE HEARD AS NUMEROUS AUDIENCE MEMBERS ARE STRUCK.]

STOP IIIIT! PLEASE!

[APPLAUSE]

GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HEAD!

[LARRY FIRES A SHOT AT THE CAMERA, WHICH IMMEDIATELY FALLS TO THE GROUND. FILMING CONTINUES FROM THE FLOOR.]

It’s over. It has to be over. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t go back. I can’t go back. I can’t go back.

[ONE LAST GUNSHOT IS HEARD]

[AUDIENCE CHEERS]